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Or a plane. Boats are okay; airplanes are another story.
“Everything ready?” Elvis asks, positioning himself directly across from the door. Whoever walks in is going to see him first.
Don’tthrowupdon’tthrowupdon’tthrowup.I take a deep breath, and then another. “All good,” I tell him cheerfully.
Everything stops as Fiona appears at the door of the chapel.
Her green dress is limp and horribly wrinkled with an unidentified stain on the skirt. She has on the blue shoes I bought her, and the floppy hat. Carrying a cheap bouquet of pink carnations, Fiona slowly walks toward me.
It takes her a few steps to look up, but when she does, her gaze locks with mine.
When she gets to me, I tilt up the brim of the hat so I can see her face
She’s still wearing the red lipstick. When she smiles, that’s when I know everything will be all right.
“Hey, darlin’ Fee,” I say. “You ready for this?”
Chapter Eleven
Fiona
Thechapelisdimlylit with a pink glow like it’s part of the Bubbles nightclub. I have a limp bouquet of flowers, I have no people, save Priscilla, Elvis’s wife, who follows me as I walk up the aisle in my green dress.
I have no wedding dress.
But Mase looks at me as if I’m wearing the strapless gown of my dreams, the one with the sweetheart neckline and metres of organza and lace trailing me down the aisle.
“You look beautiful,” Mase says, and for once I believe it.
“Do you—” Elvis begins in a deep voice.
“Fiona Alice Stark,” Mase supplies since my voice has deserted me.
“Do you, Fiona Alice Stark, take Mase Stirling to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
“Mason,” I correct in a voice that is not my own. “Gordon Thomas Mason Stirling.”
Elvis blinks. “That’s a lot of names,” he drawls in a deep voice. “Do you want him to be your husband?”
“Are you sure?” I study Mase’s expression for any sign of doubt, any signal he’s about to run. Because this is big. This is huge. This is—
“I’m as sure as when there’s a ninety-mile fastball coming across the plate, high and a little outside, I’m going hit it out of the park,” he says with such confidence that my knees actually get a little weak.
This isn’t anxiety though; it’s fear, plain and simple.
What on earth am I doing?
“Yes,” I say in a rush. “I’ll take him.”
“Normally, the response is ‘I do.’”
“I take her, too,” Mase says and a wave of such happiness crashes over me that I giggle.
“I take him.”
“I take her.”
“I do,” I say for the sake of Elvis.
